Page 71 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Kora smiled and curtsied carefully, though her pulse quickened again. Seraphine still had not spoken, but Kora felt her scrutiny and knew it promised courtly complication.

“Speaking of indulgences,” Ernst said abruptly, “I find myself craving a proper hunt. Lemierre, as I recall, offers the finest grounds in the Empire. Would you indulge an old friend’s appetite?”

“Of course,” Duncan said, expression unreadable. “You are welcome to the valley’s game. The forests are generous this season.” He turned, locating Osric among the gathered household. “See that arrangements are made.”

“Splendid.” Ernst clapped once as Osric bowed and vanished into the castle. “What could be better than woods, hounds, and fine company?”

Genefra laughed again. “There is not the slightest chance I shall be tramping through dirt and briar. Let the men chase creatures that smell of earth. The ladies will take tea. Clean, and mercifully free of barking.”

“Do not worry,” Duncan whispered to Kora as the guests were ushered inside. “We will not be gone long.” He pivoted toward the castle, seemingly unbothered, though Kora could see his soldier’s mind already recalibrating the situation.

When the last of the Duskmere retinue disappeared, Kora spotted Isander beneath a shadowed arch where he had kept watch. Tentatively she smiled, testing whether the coolness from their previous exchange still lingered.

He returned the smile easily, as though the tension had never been.

Relief washed through Kora. She crossed to him and pulled him into an embrace. Then, after a nervous pause she did not quite manage to hide, “Who is Seraphine?”

Isander chuckled. “Seraphine derHamefbeck, formerly derBrandelov. Countess of Moscowa.” After a beat he added, “Genefra’s sister.”

Kora blinked. “I would never have guessed.”

“Few do. They share blood, not temperament.” He paused, eyes flickering toward the doorway where the woman had disappeared. “She is a widow. The earl was rather old. Died soon after they had wed.” His voice lowered. “Fortunately for her, she had already borne him an heir.”

Kora tilted her head, considering that in silence. Widowhood brought a freedom most women never knew. Protection without dependence. Standing without obligation.

“She is beautiful,” she said at last, almost unwillingly.

“Yes,” Isander agreed readily. “And she knows how to use it.” He glanced at Kora, something like humor in his eyes. “In that, she and Ernst are alike.”

Kora frowned. “I do not see how.”

Isander cleared his throat and leaned closer. “Lovers,” he said plainly. “Many of them. Ernst especially. You know they call him the Seed of Duskmere? His reputation is no secret. Bastards across half the duchy. Perhaps half the Empire.”

Kora felt her stomach turn. “That is cruel. To Genefra.”

Isander gave a small shrug, though pity softened his eyes. “I think she made peace with it long ago. She has her own ambitions. Marriages arranged, influence extended, power gathered through being duchess. She turns a blind eye to the rest.”

“That sounds unbearable,” Kora said, and meant it.

“It likely is,” he said. “But she never shows it.”

He studied her a moment. “One caution, if I may. If you ever want a confidence kept, do not share it with Genefra. She is not malicious, but she is the court’s most accomplished gossip. With her, words fly faster than ravens.”

Kora exhaled, unsettled but grateful. “Thank you.” She glanced toward the castle doors and straightened her shoulders. “I should go. They will be ready soon.”

Isander inclined his head. “Good fortune, my lady.”

The solar waited in perfect order: polished tea service, pastries laid out with care. Kora inspected it anyway, straightening a spoon, adjusting a saucer, then finally forced herself to sit.

Kora had scarcely settled when Genefra swept in, her gown rustling like gathering storm clouds. The Duchess of Duskmere claimed the broadest chair and the fullest plate as though it were her due, laughter accompanying every movement.

A moment later Seraphine entered the room slowly, silent where her sister was noise, and folded herself neatly into the seat opposite Kora. Her presence tipped the air into an uneasy balance between courtesy and caution.

“I have been dreaming of this moment since we set out,” Genefra announced, patting her dark auburn curls as Kora reached for the teapot and poured carefully.

Genefra lifted a lemon with jeweled fingers and inspected it. “You are from Ardor, are you not?” she asked, biting into the sugared peel with theatrical relish. “Only your southern groves grow lemons this sharp. Mean little fruits. Sour and stingy, much like your lords.”

“We cheat by pampering our trees,” Kora replied, choosing lightness over offense.